


Nothing More

by Mohini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Muggle University AU, Recreational Drug Use, minimal use of magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-22
Updated: 2014-04-22
Packaged: 2018-01-20 09:40:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1505690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been three years since I died in a forest at the whim of a lunatic and nearly two since I put an ocean and half the US between myself and anyone who knew me as their savior.  It was meant to be a fresh start, a new beginning of sorts. Here I am, in a college dorm with Draco Malfoy in my arms, coming down from the high from hell. I tell myself that this still falls under the heading of babysitting my fucked up friend, and that there is nothing more between us. I’m having trouble believing myself, though, as he whimpers in his sleep and I lean down to kiss his forehead and whisper reassurances until he calms once more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing More

I am settling into my seat in the ridiculously huge lecture hall when my mobile vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and read yet another text from Hermione. I quickly type in a response, telling her that I am in class and that I will get in touch this evening. I know that by the time it is evening for me it will be the middle of the night for her. I only really talk to her in the early mornings anymore, when her evening is winding down. A fourteen hour time difference between Australia and the middle of the US doesn’t make for very good communication. I’m oddly grateful to that. I came here to get away from the insanity of Britain, to have a chance to get to be a normal person. If I were to be honest about it, I also came to get away from a world that demanded impossible sacrifices from me before I was old enough to even know who I was. 

It’s been three years since I died in a forest at the whim of a lunatic and nearly two since I put an ocean and half the US between myself and anyone who knew me as the fucking savior. I haven’t used a wand since I left, either. I am decent at wandless magic, which can’t be tracked the same way wandwork can. Despite the hold that world seems to think it is entitled to over me, I am finished. I walked willingly to my death before I had ever gotten a chance to live, and all the thanks I ever got was Ginny Weasley trying to force me into a marriage I didn’t want and constant flashbulbs in my face every time I dared to leave Grimmauld Place. Things came to a head when I finally screamed at her, in the middle of the Burrow, no less, that I was not marrying her, that I was not interested in being with her, and that, quite frankly, I would prefer to sleep with Charlie. 

I didn’t actually know it was possible to render her speechless, but that did the job. Ron had stared at me, muttering that he didn’t even know me anymore. Poor Charlie, who I had already slept with, if one could apply that label to a hurried fuck in the back room of a Muggle Club, looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. Molly had gone utterly pale and still. George had stood and laughed at the entire scene, and I had turned on the spot and Apparated the hell out of there. The aftermath had included more screaming rows that I thought a person could be expected to survive and a fistfight with Ron that left me battered and sore for a week. We haven’t spoken since. Within a month, I was on a flight across the Atlantic, a suitcase with an undetectable extension charm carrying everything I cared to bring with me. I managed to transfer everything from my vaults at Gringotts into a US wizarding bank, sold Grimmauld place, and survived a crash course in how to be a Muggle from a Dennis Creevey, who had left the wizarding world behind when his brother was killed in the last battle. 

Starting over in a new country, leaving magic behind, leaving everything behind had been terrifying. I had ended up in this little college town in the middle of the country  
and decided to enroll as an international student. After what seemed like a million examinations to determine my placement in subjects I hadn’t actually studied since primary school. I was incredibly proud that the only subject I had ended up needing remedial level work in had been mathematics. 

The sound of the professor’s voice broke me out of my woolgathering, and I sat up and began taking down notes. By the end of class, my hand was beginning to ache and I was fairly certain that Chemistry was going to be the class that killed me this semester. I hurried through campus to my next class, cursing the spread between the buildings. The campus was beautiful, but the walk between classes was brutal. I raced up the stairs in the building housing my introductory psychology course and managed to snag a seat moments before class began.

Two more classes later, I trudge back to my dormitory. It is set aside for international students, and thanks to its year round housing I have been able to avoid having to hunt down and furnish a flat. Apartment, I should say. I don’t intend to ever return to Britain, but I fear my vocabulary and accent will mark me forever as an outsider here. I’ve got a series of emails to return and have just started in on some course reading when my mobile buzzes again, this time with an invitation from Chris to come to the bar with him tonight. I smile before sending back a reply asking what time to meet up and where. Chris was one of the first boyfriends I had here. We fizzled within a few months, neither in a position for any kind of commitment, but we’ve remained close. We hang out a few times a week, and go out and get ourselves shamefully drunk with regularity.

Nightfall has me dressed in leather pants, a skin tight shirt, and leather spiked collar. I’ve grown to love these clothes, this armor that I favor for club nights. Chris says I’m a natural Goth, and he’s probably right. The clothes, the music, the scene, it all feels like coming home. We meet up at the entrance to the club, thankfully within walking distance of campus. I know I won’t be in any fit state to drive within a few hours. A drag show and several hours on the crowded dance floor later, I manage to negotiate the stairs up to my dorm floor. I grab my shower things, knowing that I won’t be able to sleep with the scent of the club practically inside my skin.

On my way to the shower, I hear the sound of someone retching in one of the stalls. It’s Friday night, so it’s certainly not an unusual occurrence and I head on into the shower, making a note to check on whoever it is once I’m cleaned up. Dressed and feeling much more sober, I notice that the stall is still closed, and a pair of black boots is visible under the door, their owner clearly slumped over the toilet. I knock softly on the metal door. “You alright in there?” I ask.

The only answer is a whimper, before more retching and coughing. “Is there anything you need?” I try again when the sound stops. 

“Kill me,” a soft, broken voice says. I know that voice. I place a hand against the door, pressing forward and using a hint of magic to release the flimsy lock.

“Draco?” I ask, looking at the skinny blonde boy clinging to the toilet for dear life. He looks up at me, unfocused eyes taking a moment before he registers who he is looking at. 

“Fate has a sense of humor after all,” he whispers before turning to the toilet once more and bringing up a thin string of bile. I kneel beside him, a hand going to the small of his back where I begin rubbing slow circles and he arches and coughs, desperately trying to void a stomach that is long since emptied. When he stops, he pushes himself up with one hand until he is leaning against the partition wall, panting and shaking.

“Drunk, high, or sick?” I ask him. He looks at me for a while, thinking over the options before answering me.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you can make it to bed, or should we stay in here?” I ask. He’s unnaturally thin, all angles and sharp edges. He watches me for a while before he answers. 

“I think I’m good now,” he says, his voice barely audible. I don’t bother asking before pulling him to his feet, steadying him when he wobbles a bit. “Why are you always the one saving me?” he muses as I carefully lead him out of the bathroom and down the hall. I open the door to his room, a single like mine and help him to the bed. I know he won’t be able to sleep in his clothes and go to the university issue dresser to grab a fresh pair of pants and a thin shirt. He’s shaking, either from cold of the come down off whatever he took tonight. I help him out of his clothes and into the pajamas. He curls up on the pillows, one hand still clutching mine as he closes his eyes. 

In theory, I’ve known he is here, living a few doors down from me. Hermione had put him in touch with me over the summer, when his house arrest was completed and he decided that he needed to leave the country and the crushing memories his house held. Lucius was dead, executed for his crimes. Narcissa had committed suicide not long afterward, leaving him on his own. The first time he called, we had talked for more than six hours and by the time we were off the line, I had booked tickets for him to come to visit me. A few trips later, he had a student visa and was enrolled in classes, we had discovered that we made incredible fuck buddies but not such good boyfriends, and Draco had found that Muggle drugs were every bit as strong as the potions he had not been able to have since his house arrest began.

We haven’t talked much since school began. He keeps to his crowd and I stick to mine. It’s almost scary how easily he has adapted to living as a Muggle. His magic was stripped as a condition of his sentence. Ten years of no access to it. The curse that blocks it is deadly if any attempt is made to reverse it. I would have expected him to be a whiny brat about it, but that boy is long gone. In his place is Draco, resilient, brilliant, and when he’s not strung out and impersonating an Inferi absolutely beautiful. He has an incredible voice and a stage presence that has landed him a steady spot with one of the small bands that seem to spring up on all college campuses. He’s studying theater, a choice he explained by telling me that he’s been an actor all his life and that at least now he doesn’t have to worry about anyone killing him if he screws up a line or two. 

When his breathing evens out into a light sleep, I pull my hand slowly away from him and head towards the door. I nearly miss his words, his voice scarcely more than a breath. “Don’t go.”

I return to his side, sitting gingerly on the edge of the mattress. “What’s wrong?” I ask him taking one of his hands in mine. I’ve led him back to bed a few times, picked him up stoned out of his mind after a gig once, but beyond that we have largely kept to ourselves. 

“Please don’t leave,” he repeats, his eyes still closed but his fingers white knuckled as he grips my hand. He’s shaking, and I place a hand on his shoulder, trying to soothe. He flinches as though he’s been burned. It doesn’t take a genius to know what’s going on.

“Draco, what did you take tonight?”

“Ecstacy,” he whispers. 

“Scoot over a bit,” I tell him. “I’m going to lie down with you, alright? I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe and I won’t let anything bad happen to you.” I’m no stranger to bad trips. Hallucinogens are really not a good idea when you’re about half a step from a PTSD diagnosis. 

He moves over a bit, clutching my hand and forearm with both of his hands now. I’m going to have bruises by morning. “It’s alright, Draco,” I coax, trying to calm him. “You’re pretty damn touch sensitive about now, right?”

He nods. “I’m going to try holding you. Sometimes that helps. Tell me if I’m hurting you. Otherwise just try to relax, alright. It will pass soon.” I’m trying hard to remember what Chris did for me the last time this happened to me. I remember getting shepherded into a cab, half carried up the stairs to his apartment. I remember arms around me, pressing in tight enough for the bizarre tingling sensation to ease off. I remember him talking to me for hours, about utter nonsense, trying to distract me from myself. It felt like an eternity. He told me afterwards that the worst of it was around four hours. I find myself wishing I knew when Draco had consumed the drug, to at least give me an idea of how long this was going to have a grip on him. 

Draco whimpers as I pull him close to me, guiding his head to my shoulder and aligning our bodies so that I can create as much contact between us as possible. I pry his hands off my arm and wrap both arms around him as tightly as I dare. He’s shaking harder now, his breathing uneven and it’s obvious he’s fucking terrified. “Tell me what you’re feeling,” I say quietly.

“Something under my skin. Feels like it’s trying to claw its way out. I’m so cold, can’t get warm. Something’s wrong, something bad. Scared. So fucking scared,” he babbles, his head buried against my shoulder. 

“Try to breathe with me, love,” I tell him, not thinking about the awkward endearment at all. “Nice and slow. I’m right here and you’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you. I’ve got you and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Make it stop, Harry, please,” he says, the words coming in nearly a sob now. I spread the fingers of one hand across his skinny back, pressing down hard, crushing him against me.

“Better?” I ask. He shakes his head. I try repositioning my arms, trying to even out the pressure to counter the crawling sensation I know is rippling across his skin. I hate ecstacy for exactly this reason. It is too unpredictable, too intense, just too much.

He’s bawling now, whimpering and begging me to make it stop. 

“Shhh, baby, it will be better soon. So soon, love. Just hold on for me. I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I’ve got you,” I repeat, the words becoming my mantra, soothing sounds on endless repeat as he cries and clutches and practically tries to climb into my skin with me. I vaguely remember watching Chris wrap a girl up in a blanket once when this happened. I’ve forgotten her name, but I remember her pale face, cheekbones too prominent and wrists so tiny they looked like twigs. Chris had swaddled her like a baby, wrapping her up like a mummy until she finally calmed down. 

“Draco, baby, I’m going to try something else, alright. I’m not leaving. I just need to let go of you for a moment,” I tell him. He wails something that I can’t understand, wrapping his legs around my knee and holding on tight. I manage to somehow get out of his grip, grabbing the rumpled quilt from the bottom of the bed and trying to figure out how to get it around him. I grab both wrists, crossing his arms across his chest. “Stay still for me, baby, just for a moment,” I tell him. He obeys, tears pouring down his face as he shakes and sobs, whimpering continuously that it hurts, that his skin is going to tear off, that he’s dying. He’s curled into a tight fetal position and I decided that wrapping him up that way is going to be easier than trying to get him to straighten out. I wind the blanket around and around him, making a full circuit of his body three times. He looks like a bizarre mimicry of a swaddled infant. 

I pull him back into my arms, largely upright this time because this way I can hold him and wrap my legs around his lower half. I face him to the side, afraid of smothering him if I press his face into my chest with so little freedom of movement. He’s still sobbing, scared out of his mind and if anything getting worse. “Oh god, sick, feel sick, feel sick,” he suddenly gasps and without considering it, I Summon a waste bin from beneath his desk, holding it under his chin as he dry heaves. His body shudders and convulses in my arms, and I’m beginning to think this might be a little beyond my ability to shepherd him through. I Summon my phone, thankful for the hands free dialing feature as I demand that the voice management system call Chris. 

“Harry? What’s wrong?” he answers after the first ring, and I am beyond grateful that he’s still up. 

“I need you to come to the dorm. Friend of mine is having the trip from hell,” I tell him.

“Acid or X?” he asks me.

“X,” I reply, trying to hold the phone, Draco, and the waste bin at the same time. 

“Tell me what’s happening,” he says, and I can hear drawers opening and closing, followed by the squeak of a neglected door hinge. 

“Hallucinating, panic, serious chills, he’s puking, shaking, I’ve tried everything I know and it’s getting worse,” I tell him, trying to keep the panic out of my own voice as Draco retches again. 

“Do you know if he took anything else?” Chris asks me. I have no idea and at this point, Draco probably doesn’t either. 

“No idea and he’s too out of it to remember,” I tell him. 

“Any idea what he weighs?”

I consider for a moment. Draco’s easily six feet tall, but his body is emaciated. “I would guess at maybe 140 or so?”

“I’ll be there in twenty,” Chris tells me. “I’ll call Emma to meet me at the door. If he’s that bad you won’t be able to leave him to sign me in. What room are you in?”

I’m grateful that he remembers the after-hours entry policy. It’s a definite downside to living in the dorms. I give him Draco’s room number and we hang up. Draco’s stopped trying to puke up his stomach lining, so I put the bin back on the floor.

“I’ve got someone coming to help, love. It’s going to be alright,” I whisper. He’s lost in his panic now, and I’m not even sure he can hear me. He shakes and sobs and whimpers, struggling against the tightly wrapped blanket. I decide to give up that tactic as well, since it’s clearly doing no good and he’s sweating buckets. 

I’ve got him unwrapped and cradled against me like a newborn when Chris comes in, a canvas messenger bag slung over one shoulder. Draco doesn’t even notice him, so deep in his own mind now. Chris opens the bag and pulls out a small metal box. “Do you think you can get him to swallow a pill?” he asks me. I shake my head. Draco hasn’t responded to me for a while now, and I am not interested in getting my finger bitten off trying to shove a pill down his throat.

“Alright. Let me crush this up, then. It will absorb if we can get it into his mouth,” he tells me. I watch him grind up the pill, recognizing it as Xanax. He hands me a little baggie with what is now finely ground powder. “Rub it under his tongue and along the gums. It will work that way even if he won’t swallow.”

“Draco, baby, I’ve got something to help, my love. Open your mouth for me,” I tell him, hoping it will work. No response. 

“I’ve got a syringe if we have to,” Chris says softly. My eyes widen in absolute horror and I realize what I’m going to have to do. I haven’t used the spell since that terrifying day in Gringott’s, have never cast it without a wand, much less silently. I don’t know if it will work, but the idea of shoving a needle into Draco’s skin when he is incoherent with terror makes my stomach turn.

“Imperio,” I think, focusing every bit of my will on getting it to work. Amazingly, it takes. I can feel the connection, and the raw panic in his mind is strong enough to nearly consume me. I wish I could just make it stop, but I know I’m not that strong at anything related to Legilimency. “Draco,” I repeat, my voice steadier than I expect. “Open your mouth for me, baby,” I tell him. Still gasping for every breath, he does. I quickly pinch up the powder in the baggie, swiping it underneath his tongue with my index finger. I repeat the action until the entire contents of the bag are in his mouth. “Swallow, love. It will help,” I tell him. The moment his throat begins working to swallow the bitter powder, I release the spell. A throbbing ache begins in my own skull, a side effect of the oily dark magic that I remember well.

It takes only a few moments before the shaking begins to ease. Chris hands me another pill, also crushed to dust. “Draco, baby, one more now,” I tell him. This time he opens his mouth and lifts his tongue without prompting. Like a little baby, he suckles at my fingers as I rub the powder beneath his tongue and along the insides of his cheeks. I have a vague memory of Chris doing this to me. 

Chris puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing once and letting go. “I’m going to get out of here before he wakes up too much. Finding a stranger in his room isn’t going to help him,” he tells me. He pulls another baggie from the messenger bag, pressing it into my palm. There are six pills there, three each of Xanax and Valium. “Give him at least an hour before you give him anything else. That was a hell of a dose to start with and I don’t know what kind of tolerance he has. He’ll probably puke some more, especially when he starts crashing later, but that should be enough sedative to stop the hallucinations and keep him calmer.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. He nods.

“Glad I could help,” Chris murmurs, turning and heading out. Draco is nodding off in my arms, and I’ve never been so happy to see someone pass out in my life. He’s grinding his teeth, squirming and breathing in shallow pants, but at least he’s not crying anymore. 

He comes to after a few more minutes, the immediate impact of the crushed pills fading. They hit hard and fast that way, but I know from too many experiences that they fade out just as quickly. He blinks up at me, nuzzling against my chest and bringing one hand up to place against one of my nipples, grasping the ring there through my shirt. 

“You back with me now?” I ask him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, pressing his body still closer and bringing his tongue to my throat, licking at a patch of skin that he knows full well will have me ready to go in minutes. 

“Draco, love, I need you to tell me you’re alright,” I tell him. 

“M’fine now. Just high and horny,” he replies, one hand going to my waist, slipping past the sleep trousers and into my pants. 

“Tell me what you want.”

“Fuck me,” he says, biting down on my neck and sending every drop of my blood south. A small part of me knows this is probably not a good idea; that half an hour ago he was inconsolable with panic and that he’s still under the influence of one hell of a high, but I also know us, and I know that we agreed a long time ago that sex was sex and nothing more. 

“How do you want it?” Even as I ask, I am slipping his shirt over his head, running my hands down his thin chest and tweaking his nipples. For a guy, they are damned sensitive and he moans at the touch. 

“Need to see you,” he whispers, biting at my neck again. I ease him onto his back on the bed, kicking my pants and sleep trousers off as he yanks my shirt over my head. His hands go to his own hips, sliding his clothes off and kicking them to the floor. 

“Where’s your lube?” I ask him. 

“Dresser, top left,” he replies, and his pupils are blown from drugs and lust, his hips shifting under me and his cock beginning to leak. I know I should get up and fetch it, should not use magic when I know he can’t, but I don’t want to let go of him. I Summon the bottle, dripping the liquid over my fingers and beginning to prepare him. 

The sounds he makes are enough to bring me to full hardness, and it doesn’t take long before he is grabbing at my wrist, pulling my fingers from him and guiding my cock into their place. He’s so high, so very high, and I know that sex on ecstacy is utterly overwhelming. It’s not long before he goes rigid beneath me, warm fluid filling the space between us. I settle into a punishing rhythm, coming within him only a few moments later. He’s panting, squirming, practically devouring my mouth with kisses and thanks to the drugs, hard again already. I know I’m not going to be able to go again. I drank far too much tonight to have that kind of stamina so I slide down his body, taking his cock in my mouth and swallowing it down as quickly as I can. I find myself incredibly glad that while he is very vocal, he isn’t a screamer. It doesn’t take him long. Ecstacy makes you insanely horny, but it wipes your staying power to almost nothing. 

He’s trembling with aftershocks, clutching me and dragging me up so that he can curl against my side. I remember why I don’t fuck him when he’s high like this a moment later, when tears begin falling against my bare skin. “Shhh, Draco. Baby, it’s alright. I’ve got you. Everything’s alright,” I tell him, holding him close and wondering if I need to give him more of the Xanax or if he will be alright on his own. 

“S’not alright. Not ever,” he whispers, and unlike the panicked tears from earlier, his voice holds a depth of sadness now that is almost painful to hear. I know this experience well, the beginning of the crash, when it feels like the world is crushing you. 

“I’ve got you,” I repeat, wrapping my arms around him and kissing the tears from his face. “I’ve got you.”

We stay there for ages, him crying softly against me as I wipe the tears and hold him close. When he is finally silent, I look into red rimmed eyes and kiss his lips. “Do you want something to help you sleep?” I ask him. He nods and I fumble around for a moment until I find the pills Chris left. He swallows a Xanax dry, still clinging to me. I grab the blanket that ended up on the floor at some point and drag it over us both. I know we should probably clean up, but I also do not want to let go of him. He feels so fragile in my arms at the moment, and I can’t seem to take my arms away from him. 

He drifts off to sleep a short while later, and I close my eyes as well, hoping he will be alright by morning. I wake to him groaning against me, one arm wrapped around his stomach as he buries his face in my neck. “Oh god,” he whimpers. 

“Need to puke?” I ask him. He nods and I reach for the bin, pulling him upright and positioning it in front of him. He is heaving within moments, clutching the bin with one arm and his stomach with the other. I rub his back until it’s over, taking the bin away and putting it out of his sight line. 

“I’m going to go get you some water,” I tell him quietly. I should have made him drink something before he passed out last night, but I hadn’t wanted to leave him to go get it. I scramble off the bed and open the tiny dorm fridge, pulling out a bottle of water and giving it to him. He drinks a few sips and hands it back, grimacing. 

“I know you feel like shit,” I tell him, “But you’ve got to get some fluid down or it won’t get any better.”

“Won’t get better if I spend my morning hurling, either,” he snarls. 

I reach forward and run my fingers along the side of his face and through his tangled hair, and he all but lunges into my lap. I’m used to the bizarre mood swings. He was like this all summer long, screaming one minute and sobbing the next. “I’ve got you,” I say, the words automatic at this point. He nods, clinging and breathing in slow, deep breaths. 

“Never taking that shit again,” he whines. 

“I’ll remind you of that next time,” I tell him.

“Serious. Never again. Fucking Voldemort didn’t scare the shit out of me that badly,” he says. “Did someone come in at some point? I think I remember someone else but I don’t know if it was real or not.”

“Chris. He brought the Xanax and some Valium. You were so out of it I couldn’t get a response from you at all and you kept getting worse.”

“Did you put me under Imperius?” he asks, his voice neutral.

“Yes. I couldn’t get you to swallow the pills any other way. Crushed them and rubbed them under your tongue and on the insides of your cheeks. Works fast that way. Didn’t want to get my fingers bitten off and I couldn’t keep watching you panic like that. It was horrible. I’m so sorry,” I tell him. I know his father used the curse on him frequently. Know that he is highly sensitive to it, and that he is terrified of being controlled by anyone ever again. I fear I’ve destroyed our friendship in my attempt to help him last night.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “Oh fuck, need the bin please.” I hand it over and he pukes up the water.

“Do you think you can sleep?” I ask him. 

“Got anything to knock me out?”

“Valium or Xanax?”

“Yes.”

“Draco. One or the other,” I tell him.

“Give me the Xanax for now, then. I’ll need the Valium later.”

“Mind telling me what in fuck you’ve gotten yourself into?” I ask him. I don’t really expect an answer, but I know from last night that he’s probably two stone lighter than he was only a few months ago. He’s littered with scars, and most of them are a lot more recent than the last time we fucked.

“I don’t even know anymore,” he says, and he looks at me for a moment before tears well in his eyes once more. 

I don’t speak. I just pull him close to me again, holding him tight and letting him cry it out. When he calms down again, I retrieve the white pill and he takes it with a tiny sip of water, leaning back against me and placing one thin hand against my thigh. “Please tell me you’re the one who fucked me,” he says. 

“I am. Draco, what’s going on?”

“I think I’m going to get sent back,” he whispers. “I can’t keep up in classes. I had a Wizarding education from fucking birth. I don’t know about Muggles, their histories, their literature. I can’t draw on 12 fucking years of Muggle education to drag my way through a class that’s over my head at best. I can act, fuck yeah I can act, but I can’t get the characters right if I don’t have a reference point! I can’t manage Chemistry, and I took a Sociology class, thinking it would be simple and it’s all about analyzing a social welfare system that I had never heard of before the class started. If I fail, I lose my Visa. I go back to Britain. Back to hell, Harry. I can’t do that. I’d rather die. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m hearing voices in my head and I see things that aren’t there. I’m losing my mind here, and I’m so fucking scared.”

I don’t know what to say. I remember feeling like I was drowning. I had never really learned much in Primary school. The first year at University had been insanity. I had needed tutoring in subjects that Muggle 12 year olds probably could have managed on their own. I can’t believe it never occurred to me to see how he was doing, how he was adapting. 

“What have you been taking?” I ask bluntly. He nods toward the dresser. 

“Bottom drawer, under the clothes. There’s a little case in there with my stash,” he tells me. I retrieve it, opening the lid to reveal baggies of powder, baggies of pills of various shapes and colors, and a small mirror and razor. No wonder he’s paranoid as shit.

“Cocaine?” I ask, not really needing the clarification but asking anyway.

“Among other things,” he replies. He looks small and fragile, sitting there with his knees against his chest, a blanket draped over his lower body. 

“Addiction or recreation?”

“Yes,” he says shortly. I nod. This I understand. I’ve been here. Not with stimulants, I hate feeling like my heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest, but heroin and I had a little run in when I first arrived in the states. 

“Alright. Do you trust me, Draco?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. There are clinics, therapists, people who actually know what the hell they’re doing.”

“Mm, and they will accept that I actually lived in a home with a Dark Lord, was put under mind control spells, and had my magic stripped from me for following the way I was brought up?”

“Point. Probably a one way ticket to a padded room, that.”

“What are you offering, Harry?”

“I’m not cutting you off. We lived through some crazy ass shit, and I’m pretty sure there’s no way to stay sane without a little chemical assistance. Moderation, though. That’s what you need to learn. Take enough to dial it down a bit, not wipe your mind blank. Drink enough to be calm, not hugging a toilet like it’s your lover. A little bit of a buzz, not a hallucinogen so potent you can’t remember who you fucked after you came out of possibly the worst panic attack I’ve ever witnessed a person have.”

“How the hell am I supposed to manage that? I don’t know where the line is until I’m miles beyond it,” he says quietly.

“You let me help.”

“You may not have noticed, but we’ve barely spoken since September.”

“I do know how to read a calendar,” I tell him. “You haven’t kicked me out yet, and I’m fairly certain you don’t have any plan to do so.”

“Babysitting me while I crash from the trip from hell not withstanding, when was the last time we had a conversation that didn’t involve our dicks? We tried this, Harry. We don’t mesh well outside a bed.”

“I’m not demanding a lifelong relationship, here, Draco. I’m telling you that when you go out, you decide what you’re doing and how much before you start. You call me if you need a reminder. You will find some appropriate tutors. I’ll pay. I brought you over her. The least I can do is make sure you get a fighting chance to stay.”

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

“And you’re the very picture of well adjusted, right?”

“Point,” he grimaced, one hand going to his stomach. “Bin please?”

I hand it over and wait while he hangs his head over it for ages, burping a few times and shuddering before finally vomiting up a tiny amount of fluid. I pass him the water bottle again.

“Drink. Even if it just comes right back up, it’s better than just the stomach acid and it should help,” I tell him. He nods, chugging half the container before leaning over the bin again. This time when he gags, a rush of clear water comes out. He hands me the bin back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

“Thank fuck you’re as screwed up as me,” he says softly. I nod, reaching over to wrap an arm across his shoulders. He leans against me and I squeeze him just a bit. The pill he took is starting to kick in and he’s starting to have trouble keeping his eyes open.

“Ready to sleep?” I ask him. 

“Stay with me?”

“Of course,” I tell him, and we settle back into the bed, his head on my shoulder and my arm around him. With my free hand, I brush lightly through his hair until he is asleep. I’m still not sure what exactly is happening here. I tell myself that this still falls under the heading of babysitting my fucked up friend, and that there is nothing more between us. I’m having trouble believing myself, though, as he whimpers in his sleep and I lean down to kiss his forehead and whisper reassurances until he calms once more.


End file.
